Who I Am
by singingminstrel
Summary: Catwoman, aka Selina Kyle. Cunning. Independent. Selfproclaimed misanthrope and loner. She entered into a business deal too good to turn down, but she didn't count on Bruce Wayne.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

A/N: I haven't researched the story of catwoman much, so my plot is most probably incompatible with the comics. I just thought it would be interesting to write a fic about Catwoman.

She waited for what seemed like an eternity, hanging from the ceiling of his office, hands and feet secured to the ceiling and her back sagging in the middle from gravity forcing her down. The clamps would hold her hands and legs, but boy, was she feeling like her limbs were going to rip off her body! She was starting to get impatient. _What's he doing? Why is he taking so long?_ She could barely stifle a groan when the museum vice-curator checked the safe _again_ and then bent over his desk. She had to twist her neck over her shoulder to look down at him, since from her position she was staring straight at the ceiling. It only added to the irritation. Fumbling with a key from his pocket, he unlocked the bottom left desk drawer.

She watched, mouth slightly open and interested to see what he had in _there_. The man got back up at looked around the room, but not up, of course. No one ever thought to look _up_. It was just too easy.

Her neck was hurting so much that she forced herself to face the ceiling once more, hanging upside down and staring into a speckled white panel. Maybe she could amuse herself by counting the number of speckles on each tile…

She heard a crinkling sound and froze. More crinkling. _What the hell is he doing? _Furious, she whipped her neck back over her shoulder, cringing as her black cat-mask caught on her shoulder.

He was opening a god-damn bag of chips!

She was vexed to no end. Here was this man, only minutes after midnight, sitting at his office and eating a freaking bag of greasy chips! She nearly shouted in aggravation. If he didn't get out of here like Vladimir, she was going to have to go to plan B, which was coming down from her hiding place unexpectedly and descending upon him like the plague. She could take him out, of course, but then she didn't want a load of publicity again. She could nearly see the next day's headline: Museum vice-curator knocked out by Catwoman. Priceless Artifact Missing. She didn't want everyone to know about her, didn't want a slew of policemen on the look-out. Anonymity was the best defense. Ever since the Van Morrenstein burglary, she had to lay low for a while until others took over on the front page. They had seen her that night, but then it was as if she disappeared off the face of the earth.

Tonight she would make it look like someone else was the suspect.

The man's cell phone rang, and he answered it. "Yes?" he said in a gruff voice. "No. Almost done. Had to stay late." Pause. "Oh, you know, just wor—no, I'm not eating again! I swear!"

Catwoman sniggered silently.

"Yes, I'll be home in a while…you don't always have to wait up for me, you know!" He wasn't the only one in the room who was peeved at the moment. "Yes, I'm leaving now!" he said in exasperation. He would have slammed down the phone, she expected, if it had a cord and something to slam down onto; instead he settled for pressing the "end" button really, really hard. He muttered something incomprehensible, then finished off the bag of chips and got up to leave. He checked the safe again and later she heard the sound of the door closing. She looked over her shoulder, waited a minute, then dropped to the floor, quiet and stealthy. She possessed natural grace. _I'm not 'Catwoman' for nothing_.

She crept to the safe but before she could lay a finger on it she heard the door being unlocked. She leapt back up towards the ceiling on her pulley, but the clamps were off. She clenched her stomach muscles so that she was perfectly flat against the ceiling and started to sweat.

The man's cellphone rang again. "No, I'm almost on my way, I forgot my wallet!" he nearly yelled into it and went out the door, locking it behind him.

Moron.

Her legs immediately fell from their position just as he walked out the door, dangling. Her stomach muscles couldn't have kept her body up for more than a minute. Satisfied that the door was locked and the man padding down the hall, she dropped down once more, this time undoing the line from the clasp on her black catsuit. She flexed her fingers through her black gloves. Now, to work.

She went over to the safe and nearly giggled, but she was too professional for giddy behavior. But she would have. Idiot, she thought. Who hides their important things in a simple three combination-lock safe? Any amateur criminal could crack into it.

She was no amateur criminal. She made a _living_ doing what she did! And she was one of the best. She could crack almost any safe—almost, she reminded herself; she knew her limits. But she was up for anything. Sometimes she stole things, cracked safes for the sheer thrill of it. It was all about the thrill of getting caught. No risk, no excitement. She turned down easy jobs on a regular basis if they were beneath her.

Did that make her a snob? Maybe. But she wasn't about to work just to get _paid_. Where was the fun in that?

Sometimes she had an employer—like the Riddle, but she really only worked for him once and didn't care to repeat the experience—and other times she was self-employed. Her work provided great flexibility, and challenges. What more could she want?

She inserted a simple hairpin, rolling her eyes as she felt something click (it was just _too_ simple), and then simply by the touch worked the dial to a combination. A little more…no, one more notch…that felt right, now back again…she had some tools, to crack the big daddy safes, but usually didn't bother. Her specialty was working things by feel. It also made her feel independent. Besides, if she ever got into a bind, she could resort to using only her own hands and a pin or straight rod. And it was just more pleasurable.

She didn't know why she derived some sort of sick pleasure from burglarizing people's collections of pricey items. Jewelry was nice, but she couldn't keep the necklaces or earrings or what-have-you-nots herself; she'd have to sell them, because they would surely be recognized on her. When would she ever have the chance to wear them, anyhow? Not unless she changed careers and became a Hollywood starlet.

She almost laughed at this one. She imagined herself on the red carpet, with a dress that cost more than the whole country of Guatemala, and jewelry loaned by some hotshot store that wanted her picture to be all over the papers the next morning. Maybe she would be in the tabloids every now and then, or all the time, if she was a huge star.

And if she kept up her other line of work, she'd be speculated about even more. _The Secret Alter Ego of Selina Kyle: Vixen Catburglar_ it would read. If she was caught it would be a great scandal. It would make all the papers.

But she was never caught.

She took out the keys in the safe, the keys that led to the exhibits on the fifth floor, and then for the fourth. She was being employed to do this gig, by a returning customer, but nothing prevented her from stealing any other items for herself.

She passed the Egyptian exhibit of the Gotham Art Museum and almost swiped a cat chiseled out of some kind of onyx material, but stopped herself. She did, however, break the glass of a display and pulled out three ancient jade and clay necklaces from the China section and was rewarded with the sounds of sirens.

She quickly smashed another display and found the items her customer wanted: three miniature statuettes of what anthropologists supposed to be the original Three Wise Men, or Magi. It was one of the newer displays of the museum.

Into her satchel they went and she agilely leapt past the exhibits to the fire escape. Now she was on the roof. They were guards coming after her, she knew, but they hadn't even caught a glimpse of her costume yet. She calmly walked over to the side, whipping out her cable line, and attached it to a handle. She went over the side of the building, holding onto the rope and lowering herself gradually. She was in a horse-like sitting position. When she was sure the guards were on the roof by then, she pushed back against the building wall and catapulted herself into the air, taking in the cool breeze and rush of the city late-night traffic below, and grabbed blindly for the other cable line that connected to the adjacent building. She slid all the way over.

She admitted she felt a little fear, but the cable was right where she knew it would be, and she was in easy reach of grasping it. Even so, the lingering thought in her mind was always: _What if I fell and smashed on the cement and cracked my head open like a coconut? _She was a daredevil and reveled in risk-taking behavior, but a little part of her that she didn't like to acknowledge was sometimes scared. But her ego always ruled over that part and her pride wouldn't be satisfied until she'd done it.

Actually, she used to be afraid of heights when she was younger. Once she forced herself to get over it, however, she was fine. She kept testing herself, too, by exposure to greater and greater heights. She felt fear, then a climaxing high, and a refreshing aftermath. Perfect.

She found her way back to her apartment and called her employer from her cellphone. "Selina?" a deep voice answered. He was her only client who knew her name, her identity; to her other employers she was simply Catwoman. Ross Nadren, however, knew her true appearance (a blonde with cat-like green eyes, a slim 5'6" figure) and her name.

"C'est moi."

"You have it?"

"What do you think?"

Nadren was a multimillionaire, a crime boss in his early thirties. He had a gang of thugs and employed many criminals, but Selina Kyle was his best burglar.

She could hear him relax over the phone. "Good. Should I pick it up at your place?"

"You don't know my place. I'll find you."

As much as she trusted Nadren not to reveal her identity (which, by the way, she had been regretting for some time), she never revealed the whereabouts of her hideout. Well, apartment. She lived in a nice but simple apartment on 35th and Cherry Street. She could have afforded much more, with the income she'd made by selling off her prizes to fences and whatnot and to clients, but she didn't want to attract _too_ much attention. Besides, she liked living simply, just she and her two cats, in her apartment.

"I have a proposition for you, Selina. I'll wait to talk to you in person though."

There was silence from her end. "It's not what you think," he said hastily.

She chuckled, remembering. "Oh, I would hang up on you right now if that's what I thought. So what's it this time? Another priceless artifact?"

"This is much more interesting. Time-consuming, too, but well-paying."

"Risky?" she asked playfully.

"It involves limousines, hotels, snooty benefit parties, and Bruce Wayne."

"Whoa—Bruce Wayne? The Prince of Gotham? Where does he come in?"

He smiled to himself. He knew she was intrigued. "I'll explain when you arrive."


	2. Chapter 2

Hey, finally, chapter two! Thank you UnspokenFaith, BookRose, N. Sirin Volkova, and Xewioso for reviewing!

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She took a taxi to his place, a mansion on the outskirts of Gotham. It paled in comparison to the Wayne mansion, but it was still damn nice. It reeked of money. Sometimes it was a little overdone, a little gaudy, but impressive all the same.

His butler (one of two) showed her in to his study. A good-looking burly man with sandy hair and cold blue eyes was sitting behind a massive antique desk. He smiled when he saw her.

"Ah, Lena. Where are they?" Wordlessly she reached into her satchel and produced three wrapped bundles. Unwrapping them, she took out the intact statues.

"Lovely. Top-notch job."

"It was nothing."'

"I rather expected you to be a little sooner, actually. Any trouble?"

"No, except the vice-curator had me bored to death while he kept stalling in his office. He was eating, for Christ's sake."

"Must have skipped his dinner." He was amused. She always amused him.

"Who knows. So what's the proposition?"

She took a seat into one of the plush leather armchairs and he told her.

"You want me to pretend to be some rich heiress—"

"—You're rich already, aren't you?"

"—and make up to all these richies just so I get invited to their mansions—"

"—so you can rob them," Nadren said promptly. "You know how I like my little paintings. The Gotham Art Museum is having an auction for some charity, and all the millionaires and billionaires get to bid for some French and Italian Impressionist paintings. Worth lots of money. Guaranteed that the richies, as you call us, will be all over them. And that's where you come in. You'll be invited as a peer to their grand mansions, where you'll have the opportunity to see a little of the inside, get the basic shape and layout. And then later you go back and steal the paintings for me, and I pay you big bucks."

"I don't know…" She didn't really like how this sounded. It wasn't her kind of thing, parading around in ritzy clothes and pretending to be one of _them_.

"They have wonderful security systems, too. It'll be a challenge, even for you."

"Look, Nadren, I don't want to play dress up and go to their boring parties, okay? And where does Bruce Wayne even come into this?"

"I only threw his name out as an example. You'd probably be invited to his benefit parties. I've seen the inside of the Wayne mansion, and it's stocked with every kind of art imaginable. I would love to get my hands on some of that. I'll pay you—a lot. You, my dear Selina, will be the ticket to getting into these things. It won't help if _I'm_ invited to parties—I'm not the one doing the burgling."

"It's not my style. I'd rather just break in. I'm not doing it."

"Selina, Selina, don't forget...I know who you are."

She became furious, and surprised. "Are you trying to _threaten_ me, Ross?" she said angrily. "It works both ways, you know. _You_ employed me to steal after all."

"No, of course I'm not threatening you," he said soothingly. "All right, then. I'll pay you—I'll pay you millions."

"Can you afford me?" she said dryly.

"Oh, I can afford to pay you that. I'm in the three-figure millions by now, Lena. And you'd be saving me a pretty penny stealing those things instead of buying them. Of course, once you're inside, you might steal something, oh, I don't know, for your own purposes."

She thought for a moment. She'd be crazy to turn down millions of dollars. It would be tough, but she could do it.

"All right," she said finally.

Ross Nadren smiled broadly. "We have a deal."

She didn't know how he'd managed it—"I have connections" he had said silkily—but somehow by the end of the week the newspapers were reporting that a wealthy heiress by the name of Selina Kyle was arriving in Gotham, fresh from New York. Inside was a short bio of her—very vague, only that she inherited a lot of money when her father, a banker, had died, and that she was "simply stunning" and "naturally beautiful" and "twenty-five years of age"—and said she'd be staying on 67 Heathcliff Street, in a sizable brick Georgian-styled house.

Her jaw dropped when she called Nadren. "Why couldn't you have used a different name?" she hissed.

"What? No one knows your name, anyway, or who you are."

"I didn't know I'd be living somewhere else!"

"What did you expect? You can't think we'd have you being picked up in limos and dropped off somewhere—wherever the hell you live—that's probably in a seedy section of town—"

"I do _not_ live in a seedy section of town!"

"What happens if the other richies want to visit you, call you, send you an invitation. Don't tell me you didn't think of that."

She hadn't thought of it, but didn't say so. "Wait—you mean I'm really going to have to socialize with all these aristocrats? I'm not a people person!"

"Think of it as homework. Getting the information for the job. Each rung you climb on the social ladder, every new party you're invited to, is a success."

"One thing I haven't thought of, until now, is…what happens when this is all done?"

"Eh?"

"What happens when this job is over?"

"I don't even know when we'll be finished, really I don't. Don't worry about it. We'll say you're moving back to New York. Disappear off the face of the earth, I don't know. Stop worrying." He paused. "Is Selina Kyle your real name? There won't be people say, in another city, who will dispute anything in the article?"

"No, I changed it."

"Good. I have to go now. But one thing: try not to hang around anyplace too much. Remember, you're not supposed to be in Gotham until Friday, even if no one knows what you look like right now." He hung up.

Actually, she had only changed her last name. She was born Mary Selina Walsh, but she had always gone by her middle name. Kyle was her mother's maiden name; she would be damned if she kept the name of her stepfather. She hated the man.

She sighed and absentmindedly pat one of her cats, Ginger, on the head.

One of Nadren's "employees", a middle-aged hag named Doreen, met Selina one day (Selina in a button-up long black coat, even though in the September weather it wasn't necessary, and sunglasses) at a famous dress boutique. "Now, I know ladies here who will be discreet," she said, baring a smile without all of its teeth. "But we'll still tell them you're a celebrity, of course. We won't tell them what you _really_ are."

Inside she was assisted by four ladies, who stuck pins into fabric. She couldn't believe she was getting custom-made dresses! They had her try on their own dresses as well, however.

She bought (well, it was Nadren's money) a black dress for a cocktail or benefit party. It was spaghetti-strapped, and came down into a _V_ to show off a little cleavage—her décolletage. It came down to above her knees, but there was a sheer black material that went over top that flaired out in jagged cuts. The whole thing was entirely filled with intricate swirling designs of ting gold and white and black beads. She thought they were white, gold, and black at first, anyway, but when she examined them closely she found they seemed to be shades of all different colors—or maybe it was just her eyes.

There was the blue formal gown, strapless and fitting richly to her figure, which filled out beautifully below her waist to drop to the floor. It was not a poofy dress by any means, but was nicely flowing, and had a train of material on the back. She had to admit she looked nice. No, she wasn't beautiful, as the newspapers claimed; but it was a nice change from her burglar gear. She might pass for a pretty woman. She couldn't remember the last time she had worn such formal clothes, if ever.

After a few hours they left, and Selina went back to her apartment. She fed her cats and pet them as they yowled.

She was like a cat, in more than a few ways. Sneaky, prowling around and skulking in the shadows before she pounced on her prey, of course, but she was very independent. She wasn't wild about being around people all the time. She associated with people when she had to—more like when she wanted to—and after they had fulfilled her needs she left until the desire struck her again. She didn't need _anyone_.

It was much the same way with relationships (though she hadn't had one in a little while, because there was the _tiny_ matter of her alter-ego, her double, that got in the way. Her lifestyle was demanding). She called the shots. One of her boyfriends had complained he felt emasculated when she would stop by his house, make love, and then leave. Who said only men could run off after sex?

She only tolerated living with one of her boyfriends for a month. Then she preferred living in her own apartment. She needed her own space, and frankly, they all annoyed her after a while.

She had thought tonight that she might slip down to Baker's Jewelers and see if she might steal some high-quality diamonds, but tiredness got the better of her. _I better bring up my energy level_, she thought as she went into her bedroom and fell asleep.

The next morning she was stretched out lazily in one of her two kitchen table chairs, reading the paper and alternately taking a swig of apple juice (she wasn't fond of orange juice).

The headline on the front page today read _Prominent Businessman Shot and Killed in Home_. She scanned the article. Marcus Grey was the co-owner of Grey, O'Flaherty & Co., a shipping business.

There was a murder of a few dock workers on the inside page, but the story wasn't highlighted.

Sheesh, she thought. What is the world coming to?

A few articles later she read how Batman, Gotham's mysterious protector, had saved two policemen from an armed gang.

Batman had always secretly fascinated her. After all, he was the only other person that she knew of who went around at night masquerading as something else.

Of course, Batman fought to prevent crime, and she…well, she stole valuable objects. But she still found similarities between the two of them.

Nobody knew who they were, both wore masks, both were independent, daring, and unsocial and lonely…

Wait a minute—unsocial and lonely? Did she just admit she was lonely? Not to mention she had no idea how the hell Batman was feeling. She simply generalized her feelings to his…

But did she really feel that way? Sure, she wasn't a social butterfly. Her lifestyle kind of prevented that. But she was Catwoman! She didn't need anyone, nor did she want anyone.

Okay, so it got a little lonely. She interacted with Ginger and Pickles, and with Nadren, but her cats were probably better company than him.

She wondered how Batman was feeling. Did he feel the same way? Did he have anyone to share his life with?

She often had an empty feeling, one which she had always mistaken for cold and calculating deliberation, and a lack of conscience that prevented any sympathy for the people she stole from.

Her thoughts flew to her one-time boyfriend, as well as partner-in-crime, Billy Hagglen. But she had killed him over a year ago.

He was the only human being she had ever killed. Her hands were now bloodied because of him, but she had never killed since. She grimaced with distaste whenever she reflected on it. Killing was so…animalistic. Wrong. She only killed Billy because she had to.

He was the only man she couldn't order around like the others. As fierce as she, but he was greedy for power and recognition. He wanted others to fear him.

He became verbally abusive first, and then a little violent. The first time he hit her, she punched him in the mouth and he apologized. He was still emotionally and verbally abusive, however—she remembered how he would call her "Slut" or "Whore" like it was her name. Or he would threaten to bring her into the police whenever she stole something worth more than what he picked up (she was a better professional burglar than he, and so he was often jealous)—despite the fact that he was also a thief.

One night he was angry, drunk, and partially stoned (much to her dislike—she never meddled with drugs) and tried to strangle her. Not missing a beat, she picked up her gun and fired a shot into his heart. When he was cold and lifeless on his bedroom floor she was surprised to note that she felt nothing. Nothing at all.

A few days later, after she had moved out, it had hit her, and she actually cried. Not because she loved him, but because she had killed someone, although in her heart she knew she was not to blame.

That was the only time she had ever felt like she had a conscience. She felt nothing when she stole beautiful objects from a museum, or a private home collection, or anything. She avoided killing any owners who came after her for their stuff, when she did get the rare opportunity to be seen and chased down. After all, they weren't bad people, just a little pissed that she was making off with their stuff. She wasn't that greedy or uncaring to kill someone because she wanted a _thing_. She had her own code of morals, and she vowed never to bloody her hands again if she could help it.

She sometimes wondered, how it would feel, if somebody took _her_ belongings. Not that she had anything worth stealing. She supposed she would feel angry and rotten. But never mind. She didn't think about that often, and she did not consider herself a criminal. Ever since a few years before she had been a kleptomaniac and it never bothered her.

She mused over past events as she drained her glass of juice.

A reporter of the _Gotham Gazette_ sat in his office when he received a call from his boss. "Gary, you have to report on a new story for tomorrow. Find everything you know about Selina Kyle and write an article."

"Who?"

"Selina Kyle."

"Who the hell is she?"

"I don't know, but all the other papers have been reporting on her! Some kind of heiress who's coming to Gotham."

"Why do we care?"

"_Think_, Gary, we can't be the only paper not to report on her! She's a big deal, apparently, so get on it!"

"Okay, boss. Whatever you say."

Soon all the newspapers featured Selina Kyle, none of them knowing exactly why she was important, but all of them reporting her nevertheless.

The rich people of Gotham, or at least twenty of them, were clustered around Mrs. Panolla's parlor, sipping champagne and talking of the upcoming benefit party, as well as a night at the opera. Soon someone brought up the subject of Selina Kyle.

"I've heard she's very classy," someone piped up.

"My cousin's friend is very close with her," one woman interjected. Of course this was a lie.

Everyone else was secretly jealous of the woman. Why didn't they know Selina Kyle? They must make plans to meet her.

"I've heard Mr. Nadren is an old friend of hers."

"Is he? Velma, let's invited Nadren and Ms. Kyle for dinner sometime."

"Is she staying with him?"

"No, she's rented her own house," someone said.

"67 Heathcliff Street," Mrs. Panolla quickly added, glad to know something the others didn't.

"And she's not married?" This was Mrs. DeJulius, a widow with two grown sons. Her greedy matchmaking eyes were already lighting up.

"Not that I know of," a man said, fingering his beard.

"I'm fairy sure she's single. After all, she would have told my cousin's friend."

Selina Kyle was already the subject of Gotham and she hadn't even made her debut.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: I've been pretty busy lately, so this story is kind of slow-going. But thanks to everyone who reviewed!

Friday came all too quickly. That night, she would attend a benefit party for S.M.I., Society for the Mentally Impaired, which was raising money for Gotham's hospital for the remodeling and extension of their psychiatric ward. Some of the money would also go to Arkam.

She was wearing a dark green number, an elegant halter style of a dress that scooped down a little between her rather insignificant breasts and went almost to the floor. She paired it with black high heels that were only about two inches high. Nadren had made her get a haircut (instead of her normal long, straight blonde hair the stylist added layers to frame her face).

She didn't wince when she looked in the mirror at her reflection, as she did the whole time she was getting ready. She simply stared at the woman who was supposed to be Selina Kyle.

She was pretty in her own way. But of course there would be women at the party who were gorgeous supermodel-looking creatures. But this dress seemed to change her. She didn't feel like such a angular, skinny, unattractive girl. She looked rather nice, in fact.

She was brought over to Nadren's mansion in a nondescript car. He had registered her for the party as his guest, and so they would arrive together. He nearly did a double take when he saw her.

He sensed some uncertainly, some doubt, in her presence. Had he been crazy to think she could pull this off? She wasn't a sociable person by nature. She looked unsure of herself, but by the time they arrived at the Hilton Hotel in Gotham she seemed to revel in her new alias. As she stepped outside the limousine after Nadren, taking his hand as he helped her, she radiated a cool confidence. He could not feel any discomfort. She could have been one of his own rich cronies.

Three news reporters were waiting by the steps, taking her picture as she daintily walked up to the door. She smiled stiffly, nodding at some people as they waved, and allowed Nadren to escort her in the hotel.

A man took their coats and a woman led them to the Hilton ballroom. She kept her composure but inside she was awed by the decorations and the room itself.

Soon, however, Selina Kyle realized just how much she hated people. Especially these ones. And she just wasn't good at conversing effortlessly. Nadren noticed and drew her aside.

"You know, if you scowl at people when they're talking to you, they will think you don't like them."

"I probably _don't_ like them, Ross," she said dryly.

He tried not to smile at this; he was torn between amusement and frustration. "Of, come off it, Selena; just try, all right? You can't get the job done without doing the preliminaries."

"What do you want me to do?"

He could barely keep himself from throwing his hands in the air. "Talk! Just talk to them! You're a person, aren't you? Smile, nod, say nice things! Is that so hard?"

She fidgeted. "Maybe not."

"Of course it's not! Now, go schmooze a little. I'll check on you later, but I need to talk to Pat Grase over there."

"Sure, sure..."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The reporter's cellphone rang again and he answered it, tired and ready to call it a day.

"Gary!"

"What?"

"What are you still doing at the office? Get your ass up to the Hilton and talk to Selina Kyle!"

"Wha—what?" he asked, yawning. "Boss, my shift is over."

"If we don't come out with a nice photo of Ms. Kyle for the morning paper, you're fired."

"I'll be there in ten minutes."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Eventually the hotel manager kicked out all the reporters in the ballroom. "I explicitly said 'No reporters allowed'!" he said angrily, his eyes nearly popping out of their sockets.

"I thought the S.M.I wanted publicity," one reporter complained.

"Get out!"

The manager nearly fell over himself apologizing to Selina, saying how rude the reporters were to flash their cameras in her face every second. In truth she was starting to feel a bit awkward.

"It's fine, Mr.— ?"

"Johnson, and here's my card for a complimentary two week's stay at our hotel."

"Oh no, you don't have to—"

"Nonsense, I—oh, well, I suppose you have your own house, but in case you're ever here late, after a dinner or the sort, you can always stay at our guest rooms."

"Thank you."

She went over to a table to get a glass of champagne as Nadren left her side to meet a friend of his. The party was starting to wear on her after a while. Never had so many people lined up to shake her hand and talk with her.

"How do you know Ross Nadren, my dear?" one middle-aged woman in clothes that smelled of money asked.

"He's an old friend. He invited me as his guest to the benefit party to introduce me into society. You see, I just moved to Gotham and I'm afraid I do not know a great deal of people…" She cast her eyes demurely at the floor as the entire crowd of people were competing for her attention to invite her to their own social functions.

"You simply must attend the Gotham Opera with us, Ms. Kyle! MY husband and I have our own box," one woman said proudly.

Dinner party invitations, high-society balls and charity auctions—where did it end? She received more invitations from people that she could attend. She found it humorous that they wanted to befriend her—she hadn't been particularly interesting all evening, not being in the mood for their small talk, but yet they still wanted to know her, and all because of the hype the newspapers made. And of course each wanted to outdo the other with social invitations.

"Of course, I'll send you a formal invitation in the mail—"

"—we'll be in touch soon—"

"Do call on us—"

She nodded and smiled and drank some more champagne, trying to keep their names in mind.

So, Panolla lived on Garamont Lane, as did the Prewetts' and the Hagues'. The Porters lived in Worthington Square. She even heard Mrs. Porter talking about their high-tech security system.

There were a few minor blunders she might have made during the evening: she already knew she'd been cold and indifferent to Mrs. Mary Sanderson, unintentionally rude to the Fredericks, and unnecessarily brusque with Mr. Madison. Oh well. She couldn't herself to behave perfectly all the time.

She placed her glass back on a table and turned back to it when she found another man doing the same. She looked at him as their hands touched and they spoke at the same time.

"I think that's my gla—"

"Is this my—"

"I'm sorry, what were you about to say?" a man with deep green-hazel eyes, dark blonde or light brown hair, and handsome looks said.

"Oh, only—I thought it was my glass."

"Yes, and I thought it was mine. But I'm not so sure now."

"Me neither."

"I'll call the waiter for two more glasses." He did, and turned back to her. There was a slight pause.

Then,

"Bruce Wayne," he said, extending his hand.

"Selina Kyle."

"Ah, the mysterious Ms. Kyle. The woman nobody seems to know anything about but everyone wants to."

She blushed slightly, which was unusual because she never blushed! But this was Bruce Wayne, the Prince of Gotham. And she, well, she was Socially Awkward.

She realized that he was waiting for her to say something.

"I've seen your name in the newspapers myself," she commented dryly. "But everyone knows about you, I suppose."

"They think they do," Bruce Wayne agreed. "But I would hope there's more to my life than parties and cars."

She bit back a particularly offensive remark. She didn't want to get on his bad terms, since she needed to gain entrance to his house; an invitation to one of his infamous parties would be like winning the Powerball lottery.

Instead, she raised her eyebrows in mock surprise. "So there is more?" There. He would take it as a joke.

He smiled. "I wouldn't take the paper too seriously."

She still didn't believe he did anything important. She was sure his executives ran Wayne Enterprise for him, and all that spinning around in sports cars and chasing after models would afford little time for anything worthwhile.

But she pretended to go along with it. "Tell me about it. They have a knack for highlighting the trivial matters and downsizing the important stories." She shrugged. "They print to sell, as do all the papers." She was a cynic by nature, after all.

"You don't consider yourself important enough to be front-page material?" he teased. She realized he was funny; even more, she was carrying on a conversation with Bruce Wayne! And as of yet she hadn't managed to insult him or act _too_ strangely.

"Do _you_?" She grinned. "If you'd bothered to read the articles, which I'm sure any sane person hasn't, you'll notice there's not one interesting fact printed there. They managed to stretch a few dull tidbits of information over an entire page."

"So why did you move to Gotham?" The question caught her unawares. She remembered to whom she was talking.

"Oh—I, I'm investing in a few local businesses," Selina lied, adding, "Army equipment manufacturing. Harrengers Inc." It was the same company that Nadren ordered some of his thug equipment from. They made great spelunking pulleys that she often used in her own line of work. "Oh, and Chestnut Enterprises."

For a minute she thought she saw a darkness flash across his countenance, but then he was back to normal. He asked casually, "Ross Nadren's company?"

Nadren owned Chestnut Enterprises. "Yes."

"You and Mr. Nadren are business partners?" His voice was friendly, but his once warm green-hazel eyes were steely and cool. He seemed to be trying to discern her connection to Nadren.

"Ross is an old friend," she said firmly. "Yes, I invest in his company occasionally, but we do not do much business." She almost blushed again, hoping he hadn't thought she was implying that she and Nadren did anything _else_.

"I see. How long have you known him?"

"I dunno, a few years?" she replied, rather uneasily. She was hoping to turn tail and run, and as luck would have it, a business partner of Bruce Wayne's came over and desired to speak with him, and Wayne shook Selina's hand and left. He hadn't seemed particularly taken with her.

So it came a surprise a few days later when she received an invitation to a dinner party at the Wayne Mansion.

She imagined the proud mansion, its seclusion on the hill, with probably the best security system in all of Gotham.

She called Nadren and told him the news.


	4. Chapter 4

Thanks to everyone for your review! Again, I apologize that it's been so long since I've written another chapter. I've been lazy, and busy. But mostly lazy. So here's chapter 4. Enjoy. 

Over the next few days she had more visitors than she could count. Mrs. Porter, Mrs. Hague, and Mrs. Prewett all came to give her lavish house-warming gifts and to welcome her to Gotham. Some arrived in droves, and some came solo. Each one greeted her as if they were intimate friends, and always with the promise of a follow-up invitation to a party. She was never more sick of people in her life.

Perhaps they weren't all horrible. Her mother always said she was too hard on people—"picky as a cat" might have been the phrase her mother used, in fact.

She studied a painting in the sitting room next to the foyer after Mrs. Hague had left—or rather, after Selina had practically propelled her out the French double doors. The painting was some form of abstract art, as were many of the paintings in this room. She gave up looking at the painting after a few moments; she just didn't get it.

Next was a replication of _Guernica_. Anyone who wanted to look sophisticated and knowledgeable about art had a copy of _Guernica_. Selina understood the painting, having taken a history class on the Francisco Franco and the Spanish civil war—and of course her professor had mentioned _Guernica—_but she could not honestly say that she appreciated the work. Perhaps she liked Picasso, when he tried to actually paint, but these were just...shapes.

The next painting, however, was the single painting in the room she liked. It was of a woman with an enlarged face, a face that was criss-crossed by lines and chiseled out of many different objects and seemed to be broken and assembled again and again. Fragments of shapes blended to create this woman, who was standing apart, solo, from her environment. Perhaps Selina could relate.

She couldn't help but swear as the doorbell rang, and she half-hoped that the visitor would hear. Maybe then the person would go away.

Eventually she forced herself to answer the persistent ringing. Swinging open one tall door and not bothering to wipe the grumpy expression from her face, she came face-to-face with Ross Nadren.

"Yes?" she asked, not waiting for him to speak. "What do you want?"

Nadren laughed and entered.

"I didn't invite you in, you know."

"I know. I wasn't going to wait for you to to be gracious like a proper hostess because you look as though you'd like to hang me."

He walked to her large kitchen; he knew the layout of the house. He was about to open her refrigerator when Selina glared; he refrained.

"May I have a drink?" he asked with forced politeness.

"What do you want?"

"A glass of orange juice. I don't feel like having liquor now."

"I don't have any. I hate orange juice. Get yourself a glass of water. Anyway, why are you here?"

"I need you to steal some documents for me."

"What kind of documents?"

"A buddy of mine, Ricky Worth, is mixed up in a little scandal involving embezzled funds for a charity in Honduras. His company has a business deal with one of my companies, and I don't want anything to interfere with it. There's records...a few bank records and such...kept in the office of the prosecutor. Oh, and there's a man named Thomas Frankenham who has copies. He's got a personal interest in Ricky Worth, goes a long way back. He works for Wayne Enterprises. Anyway, they're gathering the evidence to try Ricky next month. I need you to steal the papers by the end of the week." He then produced a manila folder with snapshots of the files. "Here. I paid dearly for these pictures. These are what you need to find. The office where the documents are kept is on the fifth floor."

"I've never seen this building."

"I have the floor plans. A friend of a friend of mine designed the building. I'll see that you have them by tomorrow."

"You're sure the papers are in the office?"

"Yes. I know people who work in the offices. Just hunt around and you'll find them."

"You know, this kind of thing isn't up my alley. I usually just steal items, not evidence."

He brushed this aside. "So act like it's a painting or the like. Are you being moral or something?"

"No. It's just...weird."

"You have a problem stealing the documents?"

"No."

"Good. Of course I'll pay you later."

"Of course." They didn't need to discuss the price; she'd worked for him long enough and trusted that he'd pay her well.

Nadren left, and Selina fixed herself a sandwich. She heard the doorbell ring once, and she ignored it. If it was Nadren again, he would get the message and call back later. If it was Mrs. Prewett or Cassandra Fontaine, they could go to hell.

The door bell rang again, and again. Selina ignored it and walked up the old servants' stairs that went from the kitchen to the second floor. She went into her new bedroom and slammed the door. After a few moments she peeked out a window and saw Bruce Wayne ducking into his sports car. Damnation!

She rushed down the stairs, but his car was speeding away out of sight. Damn, damn, damn! She had missed Bruce Wayne.

She wondered what his purpose was, and then wondered why she was so anxious to see him. Well, he had already invited her to a party on Saturday; it wasn't as if she'd missed her golden ticket into the Wayne mansion. But still, it might've helped to schmooze a little.

And a very tiny part of her thought she might actually like talking with him. For a minute or two anyway.

She went outside, stepped into a nondescript station wagon, and drove to her old apartment to feed her cats.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

She decided to break into the office complex that Friday night. She studied the floor plans. Nadren had included some details he had scrounged up about the security system. She knew where the main cameras were, and where the security guards' office was.

Friday night came as she stepped into her black clothing. She did not feel the least bit nervous. Any other sane person would have felt apprehension, but she felt nothing. She was empty. She questioned her sanity.

She drove to a parking lot behind an abandoned movie theater at half past ten. Then she walked a block, climbed a few fences, and arrived behind the office building. She walked calmly to the door that led to the basement. She knew the code to press into the keys; this was a job with plenty of inside help. The heavy door opened, admitting her into the bowels of the building.

It was dark and damp. She traveled along the cement floor, reaching to feel her mask securely in place. It was a plain black covering, with slits for eyes and mouth. Over the eyes were plastic yellowish covers that allowed her to see out but prevented anyone from seeing into her eyes. The hole for her mouth was covered by black Any close-up pictures taken by security cameras would be useless; there were no real defining characteristics of her that could be seen.

The yellow eye pieces were slanted almond shapes. These and the fact that she was a catburglar caused the press to crown her "Catwoman" last summer. She had been caught on camera as she broke into a number of middle-class houses. The press had written several different pieces on her and sensationalized the break-ins, creating a slight panic among homeowners. At first she despised the attention; later she relished it. She even stuck black velvet cat ears to the head of her suit as she burglarized a building and did not bother to destroy the camera, knowing they would have the image of her. Afterwards she hated herself for it and tore the ears off in a fit. From that point on she was more discreet and cautious; soon her brief fame was over, and the press eagerly took up the story of Gotham's rising rate of violent crimes.

She let one eye glance around the corner of the first floor, then fell back. Then she walked to the stairwell (she never used the elevators, for good reason) and walked a flight of steps.

Even though Selina Kyle the person was unrecognizable under the suit, she would remove the security tapes. She did not want people to know Catwoman had returned, or rather that she had never left. As long as her alter ego was out of the spotlight, she was fine; and if fingers were pointing at others for blame, so much the better.

One guard was patrolling, the other was in his office. Selina Kyle knocked on the door and waited patiently.

"Who's there?"

"It's me."

"Who's that?" the voice asked, and started to open the door—but before he could say anything more or even get a proper look at her, Catwoman delivered a neat blow to his head and the man collapsed. She dragged him back into the office and shut the door. She patiently moved him into a sitting position and bound his arms and hands and legs and feet with rope. Then she tied him to a chair and rolled him to one side of the office. He was starting to stir as she stuck a gag in his mouth; then, she blindfolded him. She found the tapes that were hooked up the cameras that fed images to the office, and removed them after seeing the other security guard round a corner on the second floor. She smashed the tapes and waited.

The other guard came back around eleven. She positioned herself to the side of the door, and then, as it was opened, did the same to the second guard as she did to the first.

Then she strode out of the office confidently and went to the fifth floor.

She found the office she was looking for: 509.

She managed to open the lock in a minute and entered. She rummaged around in the filing cabinets of the office for about an hour until she found the right papers. She was straightening herself and preparing to leave when a deep voice spoke behind her.

"Put those files back where you found them."

She jumped and bit back a yelp. Usually she was always aware of her surroundings. Usually she could hear someone coming. Usually. But this voice had escaped her senses.

She turned, slowly, papers in hand like a guilty child caught red-handed with a cookie before dinnertime.

The voice belonged to a tall apparition dressed in black and with a mask with pointed bat ears.

_Batman_.

Suddenly she was afraid.

The Batman looked her up and down for a minute. "I didn't think you stole legal evidence," he said in his deep, gruff voice, "only money and artwork. It's not been your experience or style to impede criminal cases."

So he knew who she was. She had entertained the idea that Batman was aware of her, last summer, but then dismissed it; she was a catburglar, and he seemed to combat only the more important crimes. Batman couldn't be bothered to lend his services to help a few people who were being robbed of expensive things. Their paths had never crossed before.

She was flattered that he knew her from her appearance. Some of her old self had returned, and she kept herself steady.

"I'm always open to new experiences."

"But why would Worth's case interest you? I'm sure he couldn't pay you enough to deviate from your usual work. I'm assuming you did it as a favor, for a friend? I never thought you weren't only self-employed."

"You must be here for a favor as well. From what I understand, Worth's case isn't all that important. He's not harming Gotham, really."

"You're right. I'm a friend of an officer at the police station. He was concerned about a break-in."

"Someone tipped him off." She was angry. She didn't trust others in doing her work. She liked to rely only on herself. Clearly one of Nadren's inside sources was two-timing them; he or she had told Nadren what he wanted to know, then told the authorities, probably for some special privledges that were occasionally awarded to those who assisted in crime busts. Of course it would have taken her longer—much longer—to break in without access codes, but at least she would have had the absolute security of knowing she was safe.

She was lost in her own thoughts for a while until Batman broke the silence.

"I called the police when I knew you had broken in. They'll be here in an hour."

"So late? What, are they taking the time to finish their doughnuts and coffee first?"

"I told them to wait. I wanted to question you."

"How did you know I was doing the burgling?"

"I've been here for a few hours. I observed you, but I wanted to wait to catch you in the act."

"So I'll go to prison?"

"That was the plan."

"'Was'?"

"Now I'm not sure. Of course, you will hand over those documents. You won't get away with that."

She didn't hand them over. Her eyes moved to the window. He noticed.

"Don't even think about it. I assured my friend I wouldn't let anything happen to the evidence, and I keep my promises. You can't escape."

He was right. He had literally backed her into a corner.

She tried anyway. Quick as a flash, she picked up a paperweight from the desk and hurled it at the dark figure, lunging to the side at the same time and dashing for the door. She felt a hand on her wrist and was jerked back with so much force that she was stumbling backwards until she came to the wall.

Now it wasn't just a matter of completing her task—it was the need for self-preservation. She had been faced with difficult situations before, but she'd always had some small window of escape. Here there was no chance to flee the crime. Here she was trapped. Doomed.

She started to shake a little. She felt fear in the pit of her stomach, an icy cold despair. She felt a ringing in her ears and realized that this would be the end of Catwoman. They would rip off her mask and she would be exposed. It would be the end of Selina Kyle, too. She noted that she was more afraid of being stripped of her disguise than being thrown in jail. She wondered dimly if they could let her keep on the face mask—try her in court with the mask—let her go to prison with her mask.

She was ushered back into reality by his voice. He had been amused by her stunt, she knew; even though she could not see it in his face, she knew he was amused by his voice.

"All right. Hand over the papers, and I'll let you go."

She registered several different emotions provoked by these words. She felt elation and disbelief and indignation all at once.

"You—what?" she choked.

"I said, if you hand over the documents, I'll allow you to leave—and without the escort of the police."

"You—you're lying."

His voice was even. "Why would I lie? What would be the point? I could just as easily take the files from you by force. I'm not bribing you."

"What—you're granting me mercy or something?"

"If that's what you want to call it."

God, he sounded so smug. Bastard, she thought.

But she neatly laid the papers on the desk and hated herself for it. "I want to leave."

He nodded. "Go ahead. The police won't be hear for another fifteen minutes."

She was still vexed that she was in this position, that she had to rely on someone else for her freedom. She hated being the object of Batman's mercy. She wished she could pummel him.

As she stepped past him she heard him say, quite clearly, "But if I ever find that you're working for crime bosses again, I'll personally see to it that you're landed in jail."

She was absolutely livid as fled the scene.


	5. Chapter 5

**First off, an apology for not having updated in a ridiculously long time. Secondly, a huge thanks to everyone who has reviewed or sent me messages; you really motivated me to finish this part of the story! Sorry the chapter is a bit short and/or choppy. Enjoy.**

To think that now he was dictating her work! And was she supposed to obey his wishes, as if she owed him something? She hated being in this position! She didn't owe him anything! She didn't owe anyone anything! She was her own person and she had severed ties with most of society—and she liked it that way. She had business dealings, but she could quit them if she wanted to. She never felt _obliged_ to anyone before—before _this_.

Stop it! she told herself. You don't owe him your life. Nothing. So what if he let you go? Stop thinking about it.

But somehow she couldn't rid herself of a nagging ache in the pit of her stomach when she met with Nadren the next day.

Nadren seemed surprisingly nonplussed as Selina related her story to him. He had known she didn't get the documents, but hadn't yet heard the entire tale. She was expecting at least a small jibe of reproof, something along the lines of: "You're slipping, Selina, must be your associating with the 'honest' folk of Gotham." Or something. But he didn't interrupt or say a word afterwards.

It turned out he wanted her to do something else for him.

"I need you to make a drop-off for me. Just a package of something, early in the morning on Wednesday."

She was taken off-guard. "What? Why can't one of your people do it, Ross? I'm not a thug, I'm a burglar, and I don't do these menial jobs for you." She looked at him, more carefully this time, and noticed the tightness of his jaw and the muscles of his face, the creases in his forehead. He was stressed. She wondered if he'd had his usual double shot for the night, or if he was putting it off until later. He looked like he needed it, badly.

"Look, I'm beginning to suspect my hire-ons more and more. I trust you… I promise I won't ask you to do this a second time."

--

She was slightly nervous. She had no idea what was in this twelve-by-eight inch package. More and more she was getting mixed up in Nadren's dealings, in criminal activity that was probably worse than her burglarizing. It did make her nervous.

She arrived at the scene to find a man unconscious on the ground. Batman was there.

"Do you even know what's in there?" He jerked his head at the package. She didn't answer. "You don't, do you?"

"I don't owe you anything!" she burst out and proceeded to go on a ten-minute rant of why, really, she was not obligated to do him any favors. Even if he did kind of let her go. Well, she did sort of owe him her life...

Twenty minutes later the package was in Batman's hands and she was walking back to Nadren's.

--

Nadren was sitting on a sofa in his office when she arrived. "Glad _you_ came back."

"I couldn't make the drop-off."

"Yeah, Crane's man called. He was knocked out by someone. What happened?"

"Batman," she said succinctly.

Nadren was stunned. "Batman? He's onto us?" He let out a river of expletives as he poured himself another glass of scotch. "So where's the package?"

"Batman," she repeated again.

Nadren leapt to his feet, eyes blazing. "Batman? _Batman_ has the package? How could you let this happen? I didn't even know _you_ ran into him!"

"Well, he showed up, and..." Her air passage felt strangely constricted.

Nadren was furious. "What do you mean, Batman j_ust showed up?_ And you just plumb handed it over to him??"

"No, of course not," she lied quickly, "he, um, coerced me into giving it up."

"Coerced you how? You couldn't have just run off like you always do? Do you even realize how long I had to wait to get the stuff, and how much trouble I went through, and how much money that package is _worth_?

"No," she answered honestly. "I've no idea."

"That's right you have no idea, otherwise you'd have been more careful!" He banged his fist on the table.

"Well, you didn't exactly tell me what I was holding," she said defensively. "Really, I did the best I could."

Nadren was still fuming, his face a funny mixture of pale white and red splotches, when she left.

Why _had_ she just given up like that, anyway? She wondered as she trudged home. She couldn't comprehend her actions. She couldn't even begin to understand herself now, and it scared her. Before all this she was simply a burglar without the heavy burden of morality dragging her down. But it wasn't that now she suddenly had developed a conscious. She didn't care what would have happened if she had handed the package to that man, the effects Nadren's crime could have on society. So why had she acquiesced and handed the parcel over to Batman?

She was walking the streets of the Narrows when she passed by a gang of thugs who were beating up another man. She passed by without a second thought.

Then she saw a dark shape out of the corner of her eyes: Batman was there, dealing some blows to the attackers. She stopped and waited until he was finished. He was telling the victim something in a hushed voice. The man limped off down the street.

She walked into the stale yellow light of a street lamp. "Hello." He nodded to her; he was sifting through the jacket pockets of one of the attackers, looking for something.

"Listen," she told him ungraciously, "I'm a thief. I'm not indebted to you, I only care about myself. You let me go once, but that doesn't mean anything. It was just convenient. I don't expect you to save me next time."

As she was giving him this rant she heard far-off sounds of sirens, and then suddenly she saw the flashing lights and the wailing grew louder. Four police cars were suddenly rushing down the street.

"Get out of here."

"I will. I just hope you understand that we're even now, after what happened earlier. I didn't have to give you the package."

He stopped rummaging around the man's jacket after he found a bag of what looked to be some kind of powder. "What you do has an impact on people, you know. You might not be the person who gave this man this package, but it's all tied up with the people you work for."

Police were getting out of the cars now.

"Do you know who I work for?"

"You either work for Bollins, Nadren, McMannus, or Crane himself. You're their puppet, and you have no idea what you're mixed up in."

"I'm mostly self-employed," she babbled. "Really. I only do a little bit of side-work with—"

"You need to leave."

"What?" she said, distracted.

Suddenly a cop was shouting, "Hands above your heads! Put your hands above your heads!"

She started, finally realizing that they were surrounded by the police. "Why didn't you leave?" she asked Batman.

"I had to look for this stuff," he said as he stowed the powder in a pocket.

He moved towards her.

"What are you doing?"

Suddenly his arms went around her in a head-lock; one hand held a thug's gun to her neck.

"If you come any closer, I'll shoot this person."

The police stopped.

"Put down your weapons, or I'm going to kill." The officers looked unsure of what to do. "I mean it!" Batman threatened.

"What are you doing?" she hissed. "You're supposed to be Gotham's protector, not a murderer. The paper'll crucify you."

"I'm saving you," he whispered. "This is next time. And by the way, now we're not even." Then he pushed her in the direction of the park behind the street and rushed towards the police, leaping up in some direction and distracting the police.

She ran off to the park entrance. Then, because she was desperately curious, she hid behind a tree at the entrance and watched the fighting from the street. Batman was struggling under the weight of a few men.

She went back and roughly pulled one of the men off Batman and socked him in the stomach.

Many of the thugs had awoken and now they were attacking the policemen.

Someone let off a gun, which didn't faze her; then there was a blinding flash of light, which did faze her. She realized someone had just taken her picture. There was a newsvan here, early in the morning on a side-street in the Narrows!

Batman pulled her out of the rumble and they ran off as more shots were heard. They lost their pursuers in the park; most had turned back to give back-up to the policemen battling the thugs. She didn't speak for a few moments.

"You know, I'm not helpless or anything," she said after a while. "It's not that I need to be saved all the time. I almost never get myself into those kinds of binds."

He grinned, teeth flashing wickedly against his dark costume and the black air. "You keep telling me that, but I'm not sure I believe it." Then he left, and she left, and that was that.

--


End file.
